AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I nod. "Bought it off the Anglican church a few years back. Turned it into a quail hunt." She still looks wary, so I give her a little more. "Just being neighborly."
Her face is blank, and I can't tell what she's thinking. I wonder the odds of her having heard about my connection to Sarabelle's disappearance, and decide they're nil.
Next I think about that night on my bed: her head pressed into my pillow, her hair spread out around her face. The memory of it makes me hard, but then I remember how it ended, with Libby seeing me with Priscilla. Impotent rage washes over me, but I'm still hard as a damn diamond. I shift my weight; that makes it worse.
Libby's eyes are on mine, thankfully. "Well I'm okay," she tells me, tucking some hair behind her ear. A tiny pearl gleams from her earlobe, and I have the odd thought that I could buy her something so much bigger.
"I appreciate you stopping in to check on things, and I'm sorry you got an earful of my business." She waves at the kitchen doorway. “You're free to go.”
I don’t want to go. It’s that same strange draw I always feel toward this girl. For half a second, I want to put my arms around her and stroke that silky-looking hair and find out what she smells like. I can still remember how she tastes, but that night, I had Priscilla's noxious perfume in my nose.
I rub the bridge of it now, like maybe that'll make the memory go away.
"Really, I'm good here." She's got her hands on her hips, and I notice she's closer to the parlor door than she was when I looked away. For a fraction of a second, I allow myself to play out a fantasy. Libby runs and I bolt after her, capturing her upper arms and whirling her to face me. I plant my mouth over hers and press her gorgeous body against mine.
I can't contain a hungry smile, and Libby side-steps, now even closer to the parlor.
I arch a brow. "I make you nervous?"
She smiles smugly, and the nervousness I thought I saw looks more like impatience. "I have my black belt in Judo. Do you?"
A grin blossoms on my face, but my lips aren't sure what to do with it. It falls right off my face, and I press my mouth into a more familiar solemn line. I adjust the bill of my ball cap, feeling the weight of the last few months. "You'd be right to be nervous. That's a good thing. You never know whose room you could be wandering into."
"So that was your room.”
More statement than question, but I say, “Who’s asking?”
She looks at me strangely, and I realize I've become too paranoid.
"Sorry." I rub my brow, feeling frustrated and tired. "It's been a long...long week.”
I'm shuffling my feet, headed for the parlor, when her mouth does something soft. I want to kiss it. My cock twitches as she nods, like she's looking in a crystal ball and seeing every sleepless night and fucked up, dead end day that's led me here, to her kitchen. I'm trying to play superhero and it's just so stupid. I feel revulsion rise in my chest. Then she says, "I believe it." Her words are soft silk, and when they leave her ruby-colored lips, her radiant eyes are on me, gentle and perceptive.
It makes my throat tighten. I remember her that night at the party—the warmth of her, the weight of her. I need to leave, but I’m rooted to the kitchen floor.
Libby's eyes flicker to my clenched fists, and I imagine what I must look like: two-hundred-twenty pounds of head-fucked male, product of an escort and a professional asshole. But instead of bolting for the Mace, she tilts her head, regarding me like she would a puzzle. "Do you stay at the vineyard often?" she asks quietly.
"Sometimes." I'm not sure why she cares.
The corner of her mouth lifts, a lovely little half-smile that makes me wonder if she has any idea what effect she is having on me. "I'm sure you don't remember this, but you helped me fix my car once, years ago."
I nod, but I don't return her smile. Even then, when she was just a kid, I felt a pull, and the memory puts me off-balance.
She turns and walks into the parlor, and I follow her into the spacious room, decorated in dark browns and reds. She looks over her shoulder as she grabs her keys from a Victorian card table.
I can tell she's thinking about something. She hesitates before casting a troubled look into my eyes. "Did you do that to your room?”
"Do what?" I frown, annoyed at how I can't seem to make myself leave.
"At the party," she says. "Your room was a wreck."
I flinch at the memory, debating only briefly whether to be honest. "I was very angry that night." My voice is ultra-deep; husky. As I drink in Libby, I go back there.
I remember the sensation of choking—a sensation Priscilla sometimes likes to experience with a collar, or—so much worse—my hands around her neck.
I'm holding Libby's stare, hoping she'll see these things inside me and tell me to get going. I notice I'm holding my breath, waiting for her wary dismissal. Instead, her mouth softens again. I wait for her expression to morph into pity or sadness, but she looks serene. "I think there are two sides to you," she says quietly.
She must think one of my sides is a psychopath. At least she won't be disappointed if I ever become an official suspect in the escort disappearances.
